Title: Heresy
Author: Dala
Rating: R for language and muted smut
Pairing: Ron Weasley/Draco Malfoy
Archive: Take it if'n you want it
Series: Duology with "Gluttony," though neither is essential to understanding the other
Feedback: Purty purty please?
Disclaimer: The characters and situations of this fanfic belong to J.K. Rowling and Co, I'm making no profits from this, etc. Clearly, no one should ever sell me Draco.
Dedication: to everyone who reviewed "Gluttony", thanks and this is for you :) New 'ships are scary! To everyone who didn't read "Gluttony" . . . well, what are you waiting for, you silly people? Okay, I'll shut my big fat mouth now. Enjoy the fic -- it's Draco's turn.


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In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

For years the Malfoys have had the reputation of being pious Catholics because my father starts each meal with that prayer. Those inside the circle -- other believers -- know better, and will bow their heads with real reverence. I think on it now: father. Son. Holiest of all ghosts. I suppose we really do fit the bill, excusing the technicality of Voldemort no longer being a mere ghost.

But growing up, it was extremely dangerous to think of the Dark Lord as anything but a ghost: dead, gone, purged from the sparkling waters of human existence. We Slytherin children were different. We never talked about it (still don't), but we were raised in a very simple faith. Remain loyal in times of strife and He will be merciful. Do not mention His holy name in public, but fill your thoughts with His glory. Obey Him and He will bless you with unspeakable power.

This has been my religion from birth, and though I have recently lost the faith, I will never be able to exorcise it from my life. Like a backslidden Catholic who feels a twinge of guilt every Sunday mass, I will always remember the community I'm preparing to leave -- if I succeed in leaving, that is.

I am still stuck going through the motions, attending the rituals, fulfilling every stereotype laid out from the moment civilized wizards hear my family name. The man I am now is not yet ready to shed the skin of the boy who was fed dark magics with his mother's milk. It's such a conflicted state of being that half the time, I'm completely lost within myself. Words slip out without my knowledge -- they're never formed in thought, they just Apparate onto my lips and escape before I can clamp down on them.

That is exactly what happened this morning. I said some horrible snarky thing to Longbottom, making his mouth go slack and his eyes to fill with tears. I don't know why I said it. I don't know where it came from. I was reeling from the shock of those words as much as he. And afterwards, I couldn't apologize for hurting the poor stupid cow. I am Draco goddamn Malfoy, and I have never been known to apologize for anything.

Five days ago, on Christmas Eve, six Cloaked wizards broke into St. Mungo's, killing several orderlies and the parents of Neville Longbottom. There were no witnesses, but each corpse had the Dark Mark burned onto its forehead. The message was dramatically clear: Voldemort's recovery from his resurrection is over. The war has begun and all Hogwarts is grieving. Grieving . . . and planning. Dumbledore is currently away on some sort of business, but he returns tomorrow and already there are rumors that they're going to send Potter someplace safe. As though there is a place on this planet where he'll be safe from the risen Lord.

I've been musing so morbidly because it's quiet as death in the public locker room, which is inter-House and currently deserted. Quiet, and bitterly cold. I've put a warming charm on my robes, but he's been out there for at least an hour, the fool, and doesn't have the strength to hold a charm for so long in high altitude. I've been trying to get him alone ever since I came back.

The door opens and I can hear the howling of the wind before he slams it shut. He stands for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. The broom in his hand is Potter's; he must have borrowed it. His fiery hair is sticking up all over, his face is pink. Awfully cute, I have to admit with a sort of possessive pride.

Finally he sees me and his wide blue eyes narrow into slits. His hand tightens on the broom handle until the chafed knuckles turn white.

"Were you there?" he hisses at me. I rise from my bench, prepared for his rage, expecting it. "Did you say the words?"

I hadn't even known the Longbottoms were at St. Mungo's, but I say nothing. Regardless of my answer, he won't want to believe me.

Throwing the broom carelessly aside (I spare a thought for it, fine and expensive as it is), he leaps across the short distance between us and starts to strike me. He's too close for finesse; most of his blows are clumsy and merely glance off me. But I rather wish they'd land hard. It's no more than I deserve.

However, his fit isn't helping him any, so I try to quell him as he struggles furiously in my arms. He shouts at me with more passion than sense. "Bastard! Fucking bastard, hypocrite, *Malfoy*, I hate you! I hate you, I hate you I hate you I hate you I . . . I . . . Draco, I . . ."

"Shhh," I murmur as he breaks off, sobbing, and slumps bonelessly in my embrace. His arms go around my waist and tighten painfully. He buries his face in my neck and I can feel the heat of his tears on my skin, burning, falling down and soaking through my spell-warmed layers. All I can do is stand here and support his taller frame, trying to be the solace I myself have never known. Until him. Until now.

After a time he quiets, trying to calm his breath. He is ashamed of his tears. I don't understand. There are things much more shameful than weeping. I hope fervently that he will never know them.

He moves his head to find my mouth, hard and demanding against my flesh and my groin. This is new; I have always been the aggressor. But I submit to him, letting him push me to the floor. There is a brief fumbling with clothing before we are both partially naked. A quick, well-practiced lubricating spell and he is within me, sliding in and out with a desperate aching need.

I know, baby. I need it too.

I think I hear him whisper that he loves me as we're both coming. It wouldn't be the first time one or both of us has slipped, let our respective walls crumble in the ecstasy of orgasm.

He rolls onto his side, pulling out of me, and the sudden emptiness is like the cold shock of winter.

We lie side by side, huddled together under our robes. He touches my body gently, curiously, concentrating on my wounds. He's left finger-shaped bruises the color of a birthmark on my hips. And there are others, in different places, yellow and fading but still visible. Still painful. He doesn't have to ask where I got them. Father is increasingly upset with my reluctance to accept the Mark. I told him that I just wasn't ready for the honor and while I am an excellent liar, he suspected something and acted accordingly.

If he ever finds out about this . . . no. Mustn't think on it. If I don't think about it, it can't happen.

I shift slightly in his arms and hear a crinkle. A bit sheepish, he digs in a pocket and removes several Chocolate Frogs.

"Stole 'em from Harry's stocking," he confesses.

"Why?"

"Dunno." I smile. Sweet-tooth.

More silence before he speaks again.

"I know you weren't there. But . . . was it -- was your father?"

"No." Yes, of course he was. Ron knows I'm lying, but he needs to hear it. Maybe I need to say it.

I know without asking that his tears came from fear and not grief. He never knew Longbottom's parents. No, he's afraid for his family, and for Potter, and Granger, and all the rest of his friends who'll be called upon to fight. And me. Us. He still isn't sure what the future holds for us, if I'll be able to resist the pull of power and darkness and blood.

Ha. Won't they all be surprised. I'm a heretic and proud of it -- and if I must burn for my Weasel, then I will laugh among the flames.